They stumble through the front door together, a mess of limbs and snow-covered clothes.

Outside snow is tumbling through the wind like earth-bound stars; it's impossible seeing past twenty feet.

Oliver fumbles in the darkness, eventually finds a light switch on the wall. Darkness wakes to light around them, revealing a simple wooden cabin, a large open living room, bedroom down on right, kitchen to the left. A thin layer of dust covers everything; it looks forgotten about for years.

He limps as Felicity makes her way into the kitchen to see if there's running water.

"How long ago was it since you stayed here?" she asks.

Oliver considers. "Four, five years."

There's water. Cold as ice, but water. As Oliver walks around the cabin like a wolf prowling an area, Felicity puts a water-filled casserole on the stove. Finds matches in a dusty cabinet, uses them to light the gas on the stove.

"At least we have water and electricity," she says, a loud thought.

She finds a first aid kit in the small bathroom. At least she thinks it's a first aid kit, recognizing things like cotton and needle and bottles with transparent liquid, but it's hard to tell when the labels are in a language she doesn't understand, with letters from an alphabet she doesn't know. She brings it out to Oliver, who's gotten a fire going in the small fireplace.

"We can use this for your leg," she says, showing him the box. He looks at her instead. Stands on one leg, doesn't hesitate before putting his hand on her neck, leaning closer to inspect the gash across her cheek.

"I'm fine, Oliver. Really. I'm not the one bleeding through my pants. Come on, let me…"

He hesitates then nods, removing his thick parkas as Felicity checks the water on the stove. Lowers the heat, uses a wooden bowl to collect some, bringing it over to where Oliver's sat down on the edge of the couch, fire crackling behind them.

They don't talk. Felicity cleans the deep wound with some cotton and water, Oliver hands her what she assumes is a form of hydrogen peroxide, uses that too, brings out needle and thread after, sowing Oliver up, unflinchingly. She's come a long way from fear of needles.

He watches her put sutures in his leg. It stings, but other things are more painful...

"They hurt you," he growls, unable to keep his eyes off the gash on her cheek, glaring red.

"I've had worse."

"I'm sorry," he tells her.

And it's not what he says but the way he says it that makes her stop, looking up at him. He's apologizing for years, not just this. His eyes are doleful, wounded, but she won't have any of that.

"Hey," she says peremptorily. "My life. My choice. Remember?"

One strong look and a nod, then she finishes sowing him up.

A while later, Oliver half walks, half limps out of the bedroom. "I used the transmitter to get in touch with Diggle. He managed to get a chopper, but the weather's too unsteady to lift in. It's expected to clear up by morning, so he'll come get us then."

Felicity nods. "I found some cans in the cabinet. I'm not entirely sure what of, but looks like…"

"Soup, probably."

"I'll heat some on the stove."

His turn to nod. "I'm going to see what old clothes I might have left here."

She turns his way. "Wouldn't happen to have any snuggly women-size PJs, would you?"

He smiles, shakes his head and limps into the bedroom.

Later he comes back out, in black sweatpants and a knitted sweater. He hands a version of the same to Felicity, gets a bowl of soup in exchange.

"I'll probably drown in this," she comments before heading into the small bathroom. But it's better than the damp clothes she has on, so she quickly rinses her face and lets her hair down, because, damnit, she's been awake thirty hours counting and just doesn't care.

There's a spark in Oliver's tired eyes when she comes back out. The sweater covers half her thighs, the arms folded so many times her wrists look tiny. The socks are the finishing touch.

"Not a word," she warns, grabbing his clothes and putting them out on the floor in front of the fire.

"Here." He hands her a bowl of soup and even though she's hungry, a frown passes over her face like a midnight shadow. Still, she sits down, the other side of the couch and finishes it. Looks into the fire.

"For a safe house in the Russian mountains, it's not so bad."

He looks down at her, glint in eyes. "Could be worse."

"I mean. Those mobster men could have stabbed you ten inches north and there wouldn't have been much for me to do." She winces. "And I can't believe I'm talking about this."

"Not much else to do, is there."

"Suppose not."

They sit in silence, wrapped in a blanket each, watching the fire. Outside the wind howls, spots of white snow through the darkness like broken apart stars.

"You can take the bed," he says eventually. "I won't sleep."

Felicity considers arguing, a moment, but she's too tired and a wave of nausea from fatigue and being struck in the head are wearing her out. Before she goes, she says, "Know what I wish I had right now?"

His eyes light a little. "A warm shower?"

She yawns. "That'd be nice, too. But hot cocoa."

A smile warms his face, watching her tired, dreamy eyes, feeling part of a private joke he's not fully in on. Still, he says, "That'd be nice."

She yawns again, lips splitting into a soft smile. "I'll make you one when we get home."

He's already looking forward to it.

Halfway through the night Felicity needs to use the bathroom. She taps on quiet feet out into the living room, dark save for firelight.

Oliver's slumped against the arm rest. His eyes are closed; his breath even.

"Liar," Felicity whispers, entering and leaving the bathroom in minutes. When she gets out, a voice through the darkness.

"Wasn't sleeping."

Her whole body flinches. "Oliver—whoa. You… don't do that."

"I wasn't sleeping," he repeats, sitting up, tired groggy eyes.

"Well. You should. We've both been awake for at least thirty-six hours and…" She stands there, considers a moment. "Come on."

Holds her hand out, in the darkness, fire casting it in an amber glow. He remains for a second, then gets up and, in the warm light of the fire, takes her hand.

Follows her into the bedroom, waits until she's gotten in and lies down next to her. Feels her legs move under the large blanket, wonders if he'll get any sleep this way, at all. Doubts it.

But it's so worth it.

Her hands brush by his arm, turning beneath the blanket.

"Your hands are cold," he whispers.

"Sorry."

She's balling them into fists when his seek them out. She freezes, then relaxes, like thaw, lets him hold her hands between his, a human blanket of warmth.

"Go to sleep," he tells her.

"You first."

And, smiling eyes in darkness, they do.